


Blade's Edge

by QueenoftheProcrastination



Category: High Fantasy - Fandom, Norse Religion & Lore, Original Work
Genre: Alternate Norse Religion & Lore, F/M, High Fantasy, Original Fiction, Rivalmance, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-13
Updated: 2017-04-13
Packaged: 2018-10-18 08:12:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10612827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenoftheProcrastination/pseuds/QueenoftheProcrastination
Summary: Princess Astrid of Trondheim will stop at nothing to protect her little brother, King Erik, from the conquering armies that are on their doorstep. Yet the darkly handsome and dangerous Prince Einar of Gotaland brings more than just a challenge to her brother's throne. Astrid finds herself drawn to him, despite her vow to keep her brother out of his clutches. Now she must walk the blade's edge between loyalty to her kingdom and the yearnings of her body when one misstep spells doom for not only herself, but her brother, her kingdom, and her very soul.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Sooo, I wrote some original fiction stuff. It’s an idea that’s been bouncing around in my mind for a while: a Norse Mythology / Fantasy Rivalmance, type deal. The characters aren’t human, but I have’t precisely settled on what they are yet. This is the first draft of the first chapter (maybe?) so it’s pretty rough, but I’d appreciate feedback. Bonus points if you guess my inspiration for Einar.

The sounds of battle had long ago died on the wind, yet the morning sky was drenched with the blood. The great chamber of the palace, which once was a warm, bustling place, seemed empty now. Only a few servants remained—the old, the sick, the women. Most of the men had marched with what was left of the army.

Though the braziers were lit, Astrid, Lady of the Golden Hall, was freezing. The chill in her bones was not due to the heavy fog that hung around the palace, but the defeat carried on the air.

She could hear the drums of the Gotalanders as they marched on the palace. It would only be a matter of moments before they burst through the silver gate of the city and made their way to the Palace of the Kings. Astrid shifted in her seat, and looked down at the boy in her lap. Erik, her baby brother and recently crowned king of Trondhiem, fidgeted and glanced up at her.

“Asta, I’m tired.” His small voice saw swallowed up in the silence of the chamber. 

She gave him a small smile, and resisted the urge to brush a lock of unruly hair back from his forehead. He was king now, even if not for much longer. “I know, your majesty. But do you remember what I told you about being like Papa?”

When the little boy nodded, she continued. “Well, sometimes—”

Before she could finish, the great doors the hall groaned and swung open to the sound of marching boots and the clank of armor. Astrid straightened in her seat, her arms wrapping protectively around Erik. Row after row of soldiers in gleaming ring-mail marched into the hall in perfect sync. They lined the ebony inlaid walkway to the dais, the tips of their swords thumping against the wood in one, deep reverberating noise. A man appeared in the doorway, silhouetted against the bright light of the antechamber beyond. Astrid could only make out his form as he stalked towards them, a victor confident in his might.

He was tall, like all the men of his cursed kingdom. His broad shoulders were accentuated by the leather armor he wore over his ring-mail. Around his narrow waist hung his sword belt, on which rested a wicked looking blade with a hilt curve to look like a thorn.

Astrid felt the hairs at the back of her neck prickle. Though she could not yet see his face in the gloomy hall, she knew exactly who this man was: Einar Silver-Tongue, second son to King Ulf of Gotaland, the Terror of the Jutes.

~*~

Astrid paced the length of the king’s receiving chamber, her eyes unfocused as she tread back and for across the finely woven rug. She had just put her brother to bed with a promise that everything would be alright.

A lie.

Perhaps.

She didn’t know. All she knew was that _he_ would be coming soon. Einar Silver-fucking-Tongue. After marching his armies across her brother’s kingdom and into the Golden Hall, Astrid was sure he would strike her head from her neck and dash her brother against the unyielding walls. But instead, he’d let them live. Once the palace was secured, he’d disappeared back to the front lines of his army with nothing but a promise of return.

Asta shook her head. She hated feeling toyed with, hated this cat and mouse game Einar was playing with them. Rather swing the ax than have it hanging over her.

She turned towards the fireplace, holding out her hands for warmth that wouldn’t reach her bones. Behind her, the heavy oaken doors swung open. Her spine stiffened, though she refused to turn to him—refused to let him think she feared to have him at her back. She could hear Einar moving about, removing cloak and gloves perhaps, before the creak of leather encased adamantine signaled he’d taken a seat. Still she refused to face him.

“Come now, Princess. This is no time to act a girl. We have things of import to discuss.” His cool, silken voice sounded just behind her, the level tone belied by an undercurrent of steel.

After a moment, Astrid turned, finally meeting his gaze. He sat, indolent and at easy, legs spread wide and arms resting along the back of a plush backed-bench. His dark hair brushed his shoulders, framing his angular face in shadows. Startling amber eyes watched her from beneath heavy brows. Watched, and… _appreciated?_  It was difficult to tell, but something masculine and possessive lurked in his glittering gaze. 

She felt her mouth pucker in distaste. He was handsome, and she hated him for it. _A monster should show himself to be one, not masquerade as a god_.

A flick of the wrist: a command to sit. She frowned but found herself gingerly sitting at the edge of the bench, as far from him as possible—though not far enough that she wasn’t within his reach. A shock of heat travelled down her arm where his fingertips brushed her shoulder.

“You have something to discuss with me?” She asked, lifting her chin.

A corner of his mouth quirked up at her imperious tone. “As a courtesy, I wish to inform you I will be assuming the regency of King Erik. He will be sent away to the north in order to safeguard his person during this unstable time. You will remain here.”

The causality with which he dictated her life was insufferable. Gnashing her teeth, Astrid shot up, hot fury roaring up her spine. “You will do no such thing! Erik stays _with me_.”

One moment he was seated, relaxed, the next, he stood before her, inches away, his big body towering over her to intimidate. “My armies occupy your kingdom;your father is dead and your king a mere child,” he hissed, amber eyes flashing green. “My boot is at your throat, princess—you have no right to issue orders to me,” 

She bared her teeth at him, fists balled at her side to stop herself from scratching his eyes out.

“I will not allow you to take him from me,” she seethed. “Secreted away until he conveniently dies of cold and neglect, or your assassin’s blade.”

Einar sneered at her accusation. “If I was going to kill him, I would have done it already.”

She glared up at him, hating him all the more for reminding her of her weakness, that she and Erik were in his clutches. “Yes, you should have. Because I vow to the Norns that I won’t stop until your throat is under _my_ boot, Prince Einar.”

His hand shot out, tangling in her thick tresses and yanking her head back. The motion brought them closer, each of her hard, heavy breaths pressing her against the solid wall of muscle that was his chest. She gripped his shoulders, trying, but unable to push him away.

“Do not think to threaten me, Astrid.” He stared down his aquiline nose at her upturned face. “I hold your life in my hands.”

“Freeze in Hel,” she spat, squirming against his grip.

Einar banded his free arm around her, pinning her arms between them and hauling her against him. “Cease this petulant mewling, and make me an offer worthy of consideration.”

“Let go of me! You have no right!”

“It’s trite but true, Princess, might makes right.” He snapped, squeezing her closer.

They stared at each other a long moment eyes blazing. She was painfully aware of the closeness of their bodies, and the fact that no man had ever dared touch her like this before. 

Suddenly he released her. Only a quick step back stopped her from falling to the floor at the loss of the stabilizing strength of his arms. Stabbing fingers through his dark hair, Einar stalked to the other side of the room before pouring himself a drink.

Astrid sent him a baleful look. “You may be regent, oh conqueror, but I am Erik’s guardian. And he will stay with me.”

He watched her over the rim of his— _her brother’s_ —goblet, amber eyes apprising. She shivered.

“It is my pleasure that you will stay here.” He took a deep draught, before slamming the metal cup on the table. “Very well. King Erik will stay here, with you as his guardian, while I see to the running of the realm as it is integrated into the Gotaland Empire.”

Again he moved rapidly to stand before her, and much to her chagrin she found herself taking a step back.

“But, I will need something in exchange for this leniency. Something to ensure you don’t turn back and bite me like a rabid dog.”

Astrid didn’t know whether the trembling she felt was fear at the sudden silken, dangerous tone of his voice or anger at being likened to a rabid bitch. Regardless, she raised her chin in defiance, her words mocking. 

“My kingdom is at your disposal, my prince, what on Midgard could I possible give you more?”

Astrid was dismayed to see that instead of snapping back at her a wicked grin slowly spread across his lips as his eyes flashed green. Her stomach dropped; she had played right into his hands. 

“You, my sweet, I will take to wife.”

Before she could object, before even, his words had truly registered. Einar’s mouth crashed against hers as he hauled her bodily against him. Astrid made a noise of protest, her fingers curled into claws against his shoulders. His lips were demanding, _dominating_ , sending scorching heat down her throat and racing throughout her body which each pass of lip against lip. He pressed his thumb to the corner of her mouth, forcing it open to him, forcing her to submit to his tongue. Astrid gasped at his forwardness, her eyes fluttering closed.

She felt too hot, to confined in her own skin. She wiggled against him, maddened with the feeling of–of _something_. He groaned in response, deepening their already impossible deep embrace. 

“Asta?” Erik’s small voice behind her was a shock of cold water. “I heard shouting.”

 She wretched herself away from Einar and slapped him across the face so hard his head snapped to the side. Instead of looking cross at her assault, he gave her an indulgent, smug smile, before turning to Erik and giving a courtly bow.

“ King Erik, good evening.” He turned to Astrid, eyeing her with a masculine satisfaction that made her want to slap him again. “I’ll leave you, _my dear_ , to inform his majesty of our arrangement.”


End file.
